


All Shall Be Well

by xtwilightzx (blackidyll)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Secret Santa, Shakespeare, a love across history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 05:56:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackidyll/pseuds/xtwilightzx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur didn’t think they could have something like this if Alfred had remained his after the Revolution, or if they hadn’t fought together during the second World War. And he wouldn’t trade Alfred for anyone else, not even the ones in his memories. </p><p>Shakespeare, and Arthur and Alfred's relationship throughout their history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Secret Santa 2010 exchange on usxuk on Livejournal, to the prompt: Alfred and Arthur go to a Shakespeare play representation. Comedy, smut or angst, your pick.

_Early 1600s_    
  
Alfred was uncharacteristically quiet as Arthur ran the brush one last time through his golden hair. Arthur wasn’t quite sure what to do with him. The tiny nation had gone out to play with his rabbits and Arthur had worried, because the land was still wild and untamed, and no matter how strong Alfred was, he was still a child, young enough that he couldn’t yet pronounce his words properly. He told himself that Alfred was just outside, just a shout and a dozen paces away, and turned as much attention as he could to his paperwork.    
  
Then Alfred had return, his happy expression at odds with how he looked: muddy with grass and twigs tangled in his hair, his scrapped knees visible through the patches in his smock and a scratch across his cheek just barely scabbed over, and the worry Arthur had been holding in all afternoon blossomed into outright panic.  
  
He had said “Alfred,  _what happened?_ ” in a quiet, stricken voice that hid none of his worry, and Alfred had looked up at him, surprised, before bursting into tears. Arthur picked the little nation up and cleaned him up before tending to the scratch, and when Arthur left to fetch a warm mug of milk, Alfred had yet to say a word.   
  
Arthur held out the mug, and when Alfred didn’t respond, set it on the bedside table. “Alfred?”  
  
Alfred looked up, and leapt at Arthur, arms reaching for Arthur’s shoulders and clinging tightly. “I’m sorry. Are you angry at me, Arffur?”   
  
Arthur sighed, and curled his arms around the tiny nation. “No, I’m not angry. I was just worried. I didn’t think you would get hurt.”   
  
"It’s not ‘cause I was muddy? ‘n tore the cwothes you gave me?”   
  
Arthur shook his head. “No, Alfred. I was worried about you. About how you got so muddy, and how you received this.” He brushed his fingers lightly over the thin scratch on Alfred’s cheek.   
  
"T’was an accident,” Alfred said, but he continued looking at Arthur with anxious eyes, and Arthur didn’t know what to do.   
  
He held Alfred close and stroke at his hair, and as he often did when he was out of sorts, blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “You know, I was reading a book of sonnets by one of my poets.”   
  
Alfred looked up, curious.   
  
"He was a rather talented fellow, penning plays and poetry alike.” Arthur glanced at the heavy wooden desk he used, and the published compilation of sonnets he had brought along with him. “And now that I think about it, one of those sonnets could apply to your circumstance.”   
  
"What?"   
  
"'In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes, for they in thee a thousand errors note; but ‘tis my heart that loves what they despise, who, in despite of view, is pleas’d to dote.’” Arthur smiled at the confused look on Alfred’s face. “It’s written for a different person and for a wildly different scenario, but the idea applies. It’s not how you look, Alfred, but who you are that I care for and protect.”   
  
Alfred’s face was still scrunched in confusion, but he loosened his grip on Arthur’s shirt and nodded.   
  
Arthur placed him back in bed, and reached over for the blanket at the foot of the bed. Alfred looked like he was still thinking about what Arthur had said, when a sudden smile spread across his face. He reached over and tugged at Arthur’s arm and Arthur leaned over.  
  
"I like Arffur for who you are too,” Alfred said clearly, and hugged Arthur. 

*

  
_1783_  
  
Arthur remembered those first few months after the Revolution as a blur of white noise, like he was standing in a crowded marketplace and could hear everything and nothing all at once. Perhaps if he reached out, he could catch hold of one of those memories, to see it in clear-cut detail, but he never bothered. Arthur couldn’t ignore the memory he wanted most to forget, of a musket clutched tightly in his hands and rain and blood soaking into his red coat; it was hard enough dealing with just that one.   
  
He oscillated between furious anger and something deeper, more painful and sorrowful over the next few years, and somehow touched a sort of cold calm by the time 1783 and the inevitable treaty came.   
  
He wasn’t in the best of moods when they arrived in France, and left Hartley to deal with the last minute diplomacies and procedures at their hotel. He was trying to avoid France anyway, lest he punch out the wine bastard’s face, and he most certainly wanted to avoid the representatives until he’s forced into a room with them and their nation.   
  
He’d be prepared by then, but not now, not yet.   
  
He was staring out into the Seine when the robin alighted on his shoulder, stroking its head across his cheek in a fond caress. Arthur pulled off his gloves and held out his hand, and the little bird hopped onto his fingers, balancing itself on one leg so Arthur could untie the tiny roll of paper. He didn’t like using his national bird as messengers – they weren’t carrier pigeons – and he wasn’t sure how this one followed him from England or how Hartley knew to use the robin. Perhaps the fairies talked the little bird into it.   
  
He stroked the robin’s head with a gentle finger, and set it aflight to read the note. It simply read  _sir, treaty shifted to hotel, neutral ground_ , with a signed H penned right on the very corner.  
  
Arthur crushed the note in one hand, feeling something hot and painful run down his chest. So they wouldn’t even consider stepping into the British Embassy, would they? His hands trembled and in a flash he was atop the ledge separating him from the Seine’s cold waters and hurling the tiny crumpled note as far away as he could.   
  
"Et tu, Brute?” Arthur snarled into the wind that snatched at both his words and his coat, whipping the latter into a frenzy around his form. He clenched his jaw tightly against the following words and swallowed the  _then fall, Caesar_ , because he wouldn’t fall, he refused to be defeated by something like this.   
  
He stayed up on the ledge until his heartbeat no longer pounded in his ears, then leapt down, buttoning up his coat tight and straightening his cravat and pulling on the black leather gloves he was never without anymore.   
  
 _The United States of America._  That thought stung, much worse than that flimsy roll of paper, but Arthur straightened his shoulders, steeled himself, and headed back to the Hôtel d'York. It was late, and he needed whatever semblance of rest he could snatch tonight. Tomorrow would be the first time he would see the other nation in nearly seven years, and Arthur was not one to show any weakness, not even to Al—America.

*

  
_1940_    
  
It was raining.   
  
It rained all the time in back in his own country. Arthur was used to the slow, clammy clinginess that spread as water seeped through the layers of his jacket and undershirt to his bare skin, and dashing raindrops from his bangs and eyes was as familiar a movement as breathing.   
  
He just wasn’t used to being stuck in a cramped, dark trench in one of the worst spring squalls yet, nursing a dozen bruises and bullet grazes and angry lingering burns while standing ankle deep in squelchy mud.   
  
Arthur wasn’t one to complain, but the circumstances were pushing it.   
  
He wiggled his toes experimentally to make sure they were still functional, then turned his attention to his rifle when he ascertained that the damp hadn’t managed to creep its way through his tall boots to soak his socks. He touched one gloved hand to the holster at his hip to his handgun and never felt more thankful that they had moved on from firearms that needed to be reloaded with gunpowder after every shot.   
  
He’d love to take a shot at Germany’s blond head right now, for putting them in this dank, depressing mess, amongst others. Amongst many others.   
  
"Hey England, the rain’s always depressing at your place but I think I found a place where it’s even worse,” an irritatingly cheerful voice came from beside him, and Arthur turned around to glare at America.   
  
Yes, yet another reason why the world seemed to hate him this year.   
  
"Stay in these trenches for a month in between fighting to keep your skies clear before you even think of complaining,” Arthur growled half-heartedly, glancing once at the other nation before going back to staring at the top of the trench wall. It took too much energy to be angry at someone who was supposed to be his ally. Nursing an ember-hot grudge against Germany was enough to keep him operating.  
  
Arthur knew about the conscription, the agreements his boss and America’s had signed in the past months. He just wasn’t sure what America himself was doing in Europe when he hadn’t formally entered the war.   
  
America laughed, that annoyingly loud laugh that carried and probably alerted all their enemies to their location, but it sounded muted today.   
  
 _The rain and these circumstances can dampen even your optimism, it seems._    
  
Annoyance prickled at him even more and that emotion distracted him enough that Arthur thought he was being attacked when something plunked on his head, scrunching his hair down and obscuring his vision.  
  
He struggled against whatever it was and felt firm hands surround his wrists. “It’s just me, England, geez, get it straight,” he heard America say. He jerked his hands free from America’s grasp and reached up to push the – the military cap up enough that he can see again.   
  
It hadn’t taken the rain long to soak through America’s hair – it dripped down his bangs onto his cheeks, rain plastering the blonde mass down in the minute or two since he took the cap off, although Nantucket continued flicking upwards defiantly. Arthur wasn’t sure how the other nation could see with water streaming down Texas.   
  
There was a strange, strained smile on America’s face before he caught Arthur staring at him. The smile flickered and became his usual wide grin. “No thank yous, England? A hero can’t let an old man like you catch a cold in the rain! I can kick Germany’s ass for you, but you wanna do it yourself, don’t you?”   
  
Arthur’s right hand drifted to his left shoulder, where one of the worst burns from Germany’s blitzkrieg lingered. He glanced up, and America’s eyes were now flinty, the blue almost black in the thunderstorm.   
  
Arthur was abruptly sick of the waiting game.   
  
He pulled Alfred’s military cap tightly onto his head and leaped up the sharp slope, catching a tight handhold and glaring over the top of the trench. “Hey, you bloody Kraut!” he yelled across the battlefield, and fired at the first thing he saw moving before strong arms wrapped around his waist and pulled him down into safety as the air above and around him erupted in a sudden barrage of bullets.   
  
"What the hell, Arthur!” Alfred yelled in his ear, somehow still audible above the rain and the gunfire, pulling him close with one arm as they huddled flat against one wall to avoid the worse of bullet fragments and broken barbwire. “Have you finally gone senile?”   
  
Arthur twisted in Alfred’s hold to reload his gun, noting that Alfred’s other hand held his trusty firearm. He didn’t bother replying – he wouldn’t waste breath trying to be heard in the cacophony; he just wanted the fighting to end, before the war of attrition wore all of them down to nothing but skin and bones and violence.   
  
He needed Alfred to join the war, in any way he was willing to contribute, but it didn’t mean he liked it. No one deserved to be in this war, or what would happen or had happened to them because of it – not Francis, and not Alfred.   
  
Arthur noticed Alfred shaking his head to throw the rain off his hair, and wiped at Texas with his gloves, wishing with all his might that he could control the wind and rains, to make the tempest turn against Germany the way Prospero ran his traitorous, usurping brother’s ship aground on his island with Ariel’s help.   
  
... now that was a thought, wasn’t it?   
  
He had one of his spellbooks back at base, and chalk was worthless in a war but he could etch out a magic circle easily enough in one of the storage rooms, with flour and water if he really had to. Arthur couldn’t control the weather or make a servant out of the wind, but he was a master at curses – both kinds.   
  
He huddled in closer to Alfred as gunfire screamed over their heads again, mentally going through his list of black spells, and realized that although Alfred had yet to release his hold on him, he didn’t hurt. Somehow, Alfred had miraculously avoided pressing against any of his burns, despite the several times Arthur had shifted.   
  
Arthur smiled grimly, and straightened Alfred’s cap on his head. He’d take any small miracle, and send a few curses the Axis’s way.   
  
They couldn’t let the usurpers have their way, could they? 

*

  
_Early 2000s_    
  
There are few places and circumstances where Arthur felt thoroughly at ease. His little cottage home was one, located out in the countryside, where unicorns wandered at will and the fairies frolicked around his well-kept gardens, adding a little of their magic to blooming roses, pansies and tiny, star-shaped London prides.   
  
And then, there were his theatres.   
  
The private balcony afforded him one of the best views of the stage. Arthur had seen a great many Juliets in his lifetime, but there was something about this particular actress, whose dark eyes and clear white skin were only overshadowed by her talents. The child had a rich, expressive voice, and when she spoke the famed lines – “Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?” – Arthur smiled, letting the familiar words wash over him. He would have to thank her later tonight, for both gracing the stage and the Bard’s work with her presence and for gifting him an enjoyable night.   
  
Although the talented actors upon the stage weren’t the only reason why Arthur’s heart felt so light tonight.   
  
Alfred’s hand was warm around his, Arthur’s slender fingers fitting in perfectly between Alfred’s. He glanced down at his lap, his gloved right hand clutching the other black glove. He tugged it off moments before reaching over in the dark for Alfred’s hand, lying palm up and inviting on the arm of the seat, if only so he could touch Alfred directly, without a barrier of leather between them, no matter how thin his gloves were.   
  
Arthur had trained his eyes on the stage, losing himself in the play during the first act, because if he looked at Alfred, he would never stop looking. They had grown close in the decades after the war, but this… this togetherness, so full of warmth and soft touches and easy banter, was new, and Arthur couldn’t help the fierce protectiveness he felt, not for Alfred himself (they had been there, once upon a time when rain and the damp Virginian air didn’t smell like grief and loneliness), but for this precious, fragile thing between them.   
  
It was at the end of the first act when Arthur felt something slant against his shoulder. Alfred’s blonde bangs brushed against his cheek as Arthur turned, slightly alarmed, but Alfred was only asleep. He lifted Texas gently off and tucked them securely in Alfred’s front pocket, and Alfred turned his head closer, breath warm against Arthur’s shirt.   
  
Arthur spent the next half an act gazing at Alfred.   
  
"My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound: art thou not Romeo and a Montague?” Juliet said, and Arthur impulsively whispered the responding lines along with Romeo into Alfred’s hair. “Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.”   
  
He stopped at a soft chuckle, and Alfred shifted, tipping his head to gazed at up him through half-lidded eyes, brilliantly blue in the dark.  
  
"'re supposed ‘a be watching the stage, not me,” Alfred murmured, his voice low and sleep-rough. His lips curled up in a sleepy smile. “I know I’m gorgeous ‘n all, but—“   
  
Alfred yawned, wide-mouthed, and Arthur smiled before he could help it. “And you’re supposed to watch the play, not sleep through it,” he said, and soften the sting of his words by stroking his thumb against Alfred’s hand.  
  
"Sorry,” Alfred said, but instead of sitting up and moving away, he slumped closer, turning his head so he could look out at the stage. “Ah, balcony scene! Awesome! Sweet dress, Juliet.”   
  
Arthur turned back to the play as well. Blue and purple lights shrouded the stage in an emulation of the night, and Romeo gazed upwards toward Juliet, who was clad in a white, flowing nightgown. “ _Romeo and Juliet._  I didn’t expect you to choose this of all plays.”   
  
"Why not? You and Shakespeare probably went way back. ‘sides, I almost forgot what the original’s like, with all the adaptations my movie industry’s been making. They’re great, you know. You should watch them.”   
  
"I have,” Arthur huffed, because he really did, back when they were theatre adaptations, then screen and television variations, first because Alfred was always bothering him about them, then because he could see flashes of Alfred in them, how he could take something that was quintessentially Arthur’s – his plays, his words, his culture – and make it his own.   
  
"And? What do you think?”   
  
He shouldn’t have looked down, because once he caught Alfred’s eyes, seemingly larger and brighter without the pane of glass before them, he couldn’t even lie his way out. "... I’ll admit that they weren’t all terrible.”   
  
"There, it didn’t kill you to admit that, right?” Alfred squinted a little, then sighed and rubbed at his eyes.   
  
"Can you see without your glasses?”   
  
"Don’t need to see all the details to enjoy it. Though it’s a bit hard to hear, ‘specially with all that ancient Shakespearean English. Even worse that your stodgy English, Arthur.”   
  
"You—you brat,” Arthur spluttered, but Alfred was laughing; Arthur could feel it where Alfred was pressed up against him. Alfred’s eyes fluttered shut again, and Arthur was curling his free hand against the curve of Alfred’s cheek before he could stop himself, touching gently at the dark smudges under Alfred’s eyes.   
  
And because Alfred was an idiot who was up to his ears in paperwork and dealing with the economy and forgoing sleep for all of it, and yet still flew all the way out to London to spend time with him, Arthur didn't berate him for his drowsiness. Instead, he shifted so Alfred lay more comfortably against him and turned to glance towards the stage.   
  
"My bounty is as boundless as the sea,” Arthur said with Juliet, keeping his voice low so it wouldn’t travel beyond their balcony, but following all the nuances and stresses and tones that any Shakespearean actor would. “My love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”   
  
Alfred’s fingers tightened against his, although his eyes remained shut. Arthur felt his cheeks fluh, then finished the rest of Juliet’s lines and continued on with Romeo’s.   
  
He went on like that for the rest of the balcony scene, acting out the lines for Alfred, until the other nation’s breathing deepened and his grip on Arthur’s hand slackened, just a fraction.   
  
Alfred didn’t look vulnerable when he slept, just open and peaceful, as if the loud laughs and the occasional dark smirk didn’t truly represent all of him. Alfred without his glasses appeared younger, like the colony once under Arthur’s protection, but Arthur knew better. There were tiny, subtle lines on Alfred’s face that weren’t there before, some stress-induced, but most laugh lines. And whenever Arthur gazed into Alfred’s eyes, he saw a maturity and confidence that Alfred possessed, earned all on his own.   
  
Arthur didn’t think they could have something like this if Alfred had remained his after the Revolution, or if they hadn’t fought together during the Second World War. And he wouldn’t trade Alfred for anyone else, not even the ones in his memories.   
  
"Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast,” Arthur said as Romeo echoed the last lines of the scene on the stage below. He leaned his head against Alfred’s and closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long notes. Bear with me. 
> 
> [1] The first edition of _The Sonnets_ were published in 1609. The first successful English colony in America was established at Jamestown in 1607.  
>  \- The sonnet Arthur quotes is the first four lines of Sonnet 141. Shakespeare describes the many flaws he finds in a woman’s appearance, but also how he still feels love for her. The theme of the sonnet is the discrepancy between one’s physical senses and thoughts, and his heart . 
> 
> [2] Set before the Treaty of Paris, which officially ended the American Revolution. The UK legitimately recognized the United States as a sovereign nation. The signing of the treaty was shifted from the British Embassy in Paris to the nearby Hotel d’York, where the British Representative, David Hartley, stayed, because the hotel was considered neutral ground.  
> \- “Et tu, Brute? Then fall, Caesar” comes from _Julius Caesar_ , when Brutus, Caesar’s close friend, and the other assemblymen murder Caesar. The phrase is widely interpreted to mean “And you, Brutus? Then fall, Caesar,” gaining the meaning of the ultimate betrayal by one’s closest friend, with the latter sentence suggesting that Caesar did not want to survive Brutus’ treachery. 
> 
> [3] Set some time towards the end of the Battle of Britain. According to Wikipedia, “During the battle, many people from the U.S. accepted the view promoted by Joseph Kennedy, the U.S. ambassador in London, and believed the UK could not survive. However, Roosevelt wanted a second opinion, and sent "Wild Bill" Donovan on a brief visit to Britain; he became convinced Britain would survive and should be supported in every possible way.” It’s one of the plausible reasons why Alfred would be there - for support.  
> \- Prospero from _The Tempest_ was the rightful King of Milan but was disposed off by his brother Antonio. Twelve years later, Prospero, a powerful magician, used his wind-servant Ariel to raise a tempest to run Antonio’s ship aground. In the end of the play, Prospero regains his rightful title and forgives his usurping brother. 
> 
> [4] The various quotes taken from _Romeo and Juliet_ come from Act II, Scene ii, otherwise known as the famous balcony scene where Romeo and Juliet meet and pledge their love to each other.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's April 23 and Arthur's in the United States for a conference. Alfred drags him off on an impromptu visit to a local high school.

_April 23, 2016_  
  
Anniversaries were both important and inconsequential to nations. Every nation celebrated their founding day, of course, and there were other celebrations slotted into the three hundred and sixty-five days of a year that came and went like clockwork, a constant to accompany the nations in their long lives. But beyond that, it seemed silly to commemorate every battle, every crowning of a king and – the ones that tripped Arthur over the most – the deaths of some of his most talented citizens, especially the ones he knew personally.   
  
Arthur preferred to remember them in his own quiet way, without the fanfare and pomp of ceremony, but every once in a while enough Britons respected one or two of these persons to merit a regional, sometimes nationwide, observance.   
  
Which was why Arthur was staring out the guest room window into the early morning sunshine, feeling the tug and the longing to be back in London instead of catching an extra half-hour of sleep. Arthur was in the United States for a conference, but nostalgia clung to him and he couldn’t go to Alfred to forget about it. It had only taken one occasion early on in their relationship, of opening his door the next morning to a very red-faced Matthew and a smug, teasing Francis – who had the rooms beside Arthur’s – for Arthur to put his foot down and insist that he and Alfred stay in separate rooms, at least for the duration of any such meetings.   
  
He turned firmly away from the window and was reaching for his tie when his room door opened with a click. Alfred slipped into the room, dressed in a blue hoodie jacket and jeans.   
  
“Thought you’d be awake. Good thing I got up early to catch you before you finished dressing.”   
  
Alfred stepped further into the room. Arthur paused, surpri— taken bac— fine, he  _was_  pleased to see Alfred, felt his mood lightened just at the sight of Alfred’s bloody golden hair, and he had to turned away because he was not a maudlin creature, oh no.   
  
“Whatever happened to not visiting each other’s rooms during conferences?” Arthur slung his tie around his neck, only for Alfred to reach out and pull it off, the dark green material slipping off Arthur’s white collar and flicking past his nose. He grabbed instinctively for it, scowling, and Alfred laughed.   
  
“You don’t need this today.” Alfred coiled the tie in one hand and leaned over to give Arthur a peck on the nose.   
  
Arthur swiped at Alfred’s head. “Sod off. And what are you talking about – we’re in the middle of a conference, and you need to get dressed for a meeting that’s taking place in two hours.”   
  
Alfred was reaching for his suit jacket now, and proceeded to stuff it back into the closet. “Nah, I told you, right? You don’t need any of these, because we’re not going to any meetings today.”   
  
Arthur was across the room in a flash and wrapping one hand firmly around Alfred’s wrist, arresting his movements. “Alfred Jones, you are not walking out of a conference you’re hosting in your own country!” He wasn’t sure what was wrong with Alfred this morning but he was obviously out of his mind, and Arthur would be damned before he let Alfred go loose on some scatterbrained scheme of his, which at this point no doubt included Arthur himself.   
  
“Arthuuuuur,” Alfred said with a slight pout, and finished putting away Arthur’s suit jacket and tie before slipping his hand free and tangling it with Arthur’s. “Trust me. Today’s meeting is for the nations that haven’t decided on their proposals. The voting’s tomorrow. You and I are free today.”   
  
“I didn’t hear anything about this—” Arthur began, before his eyebrows furrowed and he shot Alfred a studying look. “…was this why you insisted I turn in my proposal yesterday?”   
  
“Mmhm,” Alfred hummed, raising their linked hands to his lips and nuzzling against Arthur’s knuckles. “I know we’re in the middle of this conference but I haven’t seen you in weeks, and I just thought, you know—”

 

Alfred cut himself off and stared expectantly at Arthur, not quite ready to coax and persuade vocally, although those wide blue eyes above their clasped hands were another thing all together. Arthur tried to scowl or at least slide his gaze away but it’s a futile attempt, not with his lips betraying him with a small smile, so instead he pulled their hands away and kissed Alfred lightly.

 

“Are you sure it’s fine to leave?” he asked out of a nagging sense of responsibility. It would have been nice to be back in London, but just as good – if not better – was to spend time with Alfred, away from his fellow bickering nations and their numerous squabbles.   
  
Alfred flashed him a bright smile and Arthur felt himself relax. “Positive! Matt agreed to oversee those talks, just so they don’t go throttling each other or anything, and where Matt goes, you know Francis will follow, so he’ll be okay.”  
  
“Why you trust the frog to help with anything, I’ll never know. What are we doing?”   
  
“There’s a place I want to take you,” Alfred said, raising his free hand and running it through the hair at the back of his head, mussing it every which way. “Matt and Francis can deal with things for today, you and I are going out, and it’ll be great. Trust me?”   
  
Arthur wasn’t sure about that – when Alfred was vague on the details, it was either because he didn’t quite know what he was doing and planned on improvising as he went, or because he knew exactly what he was doing and knew it was something Arthur would balk at.   
  
Still. Arthur looked up into Alfred’s eyes and that bright smile, and really, in face of that, what else could he say? “You know I do.”   
  
Alfred gave his hand a tight squeeze, and tugged him out of the room. 

\-----

  
They traveled through the subway and walked the rest, Alfred holding doggedly onto Arthur’s hand when he tried to pull free – they were in public, after all – and taking turns and shortcuts down streets and alleyways until Arthur was lost, and couldn’t be sure that Alfred wasn’t. But Alfred always had an uncanny sense of direction, and it wasn’t long before they were in one of the upper-end neighbourhoods.   
  
They stopped in front of a series of interconnected buildings, a secondary school – well, high school - from the looks of it, and Arthur paused, wondering if Alfred needed directions. But Alfred breezed right through the gates, still pulling Arthur along though their linked hands, and Arthur finally realized that this was where Alfred had meant to take him.   
  
“Here?”   
  
“Yep! Give me a minute, I know the people here.” He ducked into an office, and waved at a woman sitting at the desk. She frowned over a stack of paperwork, but her expression cleared into a smile when she looked up and caught sight of Alfred.   
  
“Good morning, Alfred. You’re in early today.”   
  
“Hey, Tracy. Is it okay if I head to the auditorium first?”   
  
“That’s fine. The seniors should be in soon enough.” She fished through a basket for two tags, and quirked her head curiously at Arthur. “Ah, is that the friend you told us about?”   
  
“Yup.” Alfred waved the guest tags. “Catch you later!”  
  
“Enjoy yourselves!” Tracy gave Arthur a nod and a broad smile before Alfred jogged back up to his side.   
  
Arthur had no idea what Alfred planned, except it seemed the staff were in on it too. Alfred snapped a guest tag on Arthur’s collared shirt, then poked at the tiny frown on Arthur’s face. “Stop overanalyzing things. Come on. It’s just in the auditorium.”  
  
Alfred led the way, moving as if he were a student at the school and intimately familiar with its layout. It didn’t seem too far out of place; Alfred was young, full of the vibrance and life that all teenagers seem to possess, and when he laughed and smiled, it was hard to notice the deep solemnity behind his eyes. When people looked at Alfred, in his hoodie jacket and jeans, they did not see the superpower nation he really was. Sometimes Arthur thought that even Alfred himself forgot that fact, despite his constant “hero” proclamations.   
  
They stopped in front of the auditorium, and Alfred paused just before the closed entrance doors. “Guess you won’t let me cover your eyes or anything, huh?”   
  
“You’re right. I won’t.”   
  
“That’s ‘kay.” Alfred gesture at the entrance with a flourish. “You should go in first, then.”  
  
Arthur glanced at Alfred one last time, then pushed the door open in one swift movement, and found himself standing in an artificial forest. There were real potted plants interspersed between elaborately painted backdrops, with plastic creeper vines hanging across them to droop above their heads. Someone had threaded small twinkling lights into the plants, and fake butterflies with elaborate fairy wings peeked out from behind leaves and shadows in the backdrops.   
  
“What is this?” Arthur asked, except he already knew the answer – it was hard to miss the quill, ink bottle and scroll props on the stage’s podium, and even harder to miss the long banner that hung from the auditorium’s ceiling.   
  
Alfred came up behind Arthur, and rested his chin on Arthur’s shoulder. “It’s the fairy forest. You know, from  _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_. You have to walk through it to get to the seats and stage.”  
  
“I know that.” Arthur felt something squeezing around his heart, but it was a pleasant, warm sort of squeezing. He drew a deep breath. “But what is this?”   
  
Arthur felt Alfred smile against his neck. “This is a Shakespeare Day celebration, and what this is is me bringing you here so you can celebrate with the kids.” He pressed a kiss to Arthur’s neck, and slung his arms loosely around Arthur’s waist. “I know you really hated missing all the stuff your people are doing back in Britain for it, especially since Shakespeare Day’s your new national holiday and all that.”   
  
The breath Arthur breathed out came out ragged, and he turned, catching Alfred’s lips and pushing the both of them into one of the corners, pressing Alfred up against a backdrop. There were lights twinkling against Alfred’s hair now, and leaves hanging in their faces, but Arthur couldn’t bring himself to care, because there were days where he did feel maudlin, felt the weight of the ages in a knot between his shoulder blades. Will was a fine man, a talented, if temperamental, man of words, and Arthur had always waited in anticipation for whatever the playwright would come up next. But it was more than that – he missed an entire era now long gone, missed good old Bess, missed so many little things because despite his young looks, he held more than a millennium’s worth of history within him.   
  
But Alfred’s hands, threaded through his hair, and his mouth, warm and open and inviting, grounded Arthur to the present, and Arthur thought it wasn’t too bad, missing his own nationwide celebrations back home because there were others celebrating Shakespeare too, even across the Atlantic.   
  
Alfred pulled back, and muttered against Arthur’s lips. “So, you like it, huh?”   
  
Arthur glared a little, but he suspected that the effect of it was completely foiled by the flush he could feel high on his cheeks, and buried his head in the curve of Alfred’s neck and shoulder. “Yes, I do bloody like it, you idiot.”   
  
He could feel Alfred laughing against him. “Yeah, that’s great, then.”   
  
The auditorium door swung open, accompanied with the sudden din of conversation. A voice rang out. “Al! I heard you’re somewhere in here!”   
  
Alfred gave Arthur one last tight squeeze, then pushed a butterfly out of his way. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to the thespians for the day.”   
  
There were high school students running everywhere, some already dressed in costume, others carrying props and sheets of paper and covered foil containers of food. A Bottom scurried past him, complete with donkey head, and Arthur felt the familiar bubble of anticipation rise in him, the chaotic flurry of activity and high spirits before a performance the same whether it was back in the good old Globe theatre or a high school auditorium.   
  
He felt an arm sling across his shoulders. “Found him,” Alfred said, his words directed to a dark-haired teenager. “Arthur, Jake. He’s managing this whole shebang. Jake, this is Arthur, my very own grumpy Brit. Make sure you guys do an awesome job, because this one here’s a real nitpicker for Shakespeare.”   
  
Arthur swatted hard at Alfred’s arm, then reached out to shake Jake’s hand, ignoring Alfred’s kicked-puppy look. “You have a splendid setup here.”   
  
“Now you’re just flattering us,” Jake grinned. “We have a theater program attached to this school, and though we focus on modern plays, it’s nice to go back to the good old stuff. ‘sides, the costumes are better for Shakespeare.”   
  
Arthur watched several Athenians walk past, then two fairies, the girls’ long hair bound up with ringlets around their faces, wispy, airy material flowing around their knees. “Indeed.”   
  
“Al!” Another voice – female – called out, and Arthur turned to see Alfred give a girl a fist bump. She had a measuring tape coiled over her neck, a pen stuck behind one ear and a mischievous grin to match Alfred’s. Arthur could see why they got along.   
  
“Helen, everything alright with costumes?” Jake asked. Helen simply flapped a hand at him.   
  
“They’re fine – no one’s ripped anything or lost anything or suddenly decided their costume’s two sizes too small for them. More importantly, is that Arthur beside you?” Helen’s eyes narrowed knowingly and she elbowed Alfred in the arm. “Al, you never told me he was such a looker.”   
  
“Yeah? Guess I missed that one.”   
  
Arthur raised an eyebrow at Alfred. “Yeah?” he echoed. “Do tell, Alfred.”   
  
“Hm, but I do see why he might forget. It’s the accent, you know. You have such a nice voice, all low and expressive, and the way you roll your words—”  
  
“No, Helen, we are not making Arthur perform anything today,” Jake cut in quickly.   
  
“No, you’re right, the performance schedule’s all lined up and all.” The twinkle in Helen’s eyes was making the hair at the back of Arthur’s neck stand, and Alfred was just standing there, thoroughly enjoying himself. “But, we need someone to pass out programs and greet people and whatnot at the start of the fairy forest, and everyone’s  _so busy_.”   
  
“We’ll help!” Alfred said, pumping his fist in the air. “I mean, you guys went ahead and took my suggestion about  _Midsummer_ and all that.”   
  
“Great!” Helen grinned. “And I think you’ll make more of an impact if you’re in costume, too.”   
  
Arthur’s eyes widened. “No bloody way.”  
  
“Helen—” Jake tried to divert her.   
  
“I have costumes that will fit the both of you too. I was experimenting with styles, and Arthur’s good for the vest and blue coat, don’t you think, Al? He’s got that aristocratic look, just perfect.”   
  
Alfred was giving Arthur one of those annoyingly bright and floppy grins behind Helen’s shoulder. “Arthur. It’s Shakespeare Day.”   
  
Arthur knew that was going to come back to bite him at some point. 

\-----

  
It wasn’t as bad as Arthur feared, even though the first time he saw the costumes Helen had picked up for them, he had to swallow his protest of “but those are 18th century clothing, not 16th century!” But Helen was a talented designer and an adept tailor – the coat fit him snuggly, over a white shirt and black vest trimmed in gold, and when Arthur tied off the maroon cravat around his neck and tried to comb his sandy blond hair into submission, the frilled ends of the white shirt flapping with every movement, he felt strangely out of time and space. Even the shoes were correct – for 18th century British wear, that is.   
  
He had another jarring moment when he trailed after Helen to the little booth the students set up right before the fairy forest. Alfred was already there, dressed simply in a white shirt and cravat and a dark olive vest. Arthur knew Alfred would protest against wearing any of the fancier coats; he could hardly keep a suit jacket on for the duration of a meeting – but for one moment, Arthur was irrationally glad for the sight of Texas on Alfred’s face.   
  
Then Alfred had turned to him and his eyes widened and he almost dropped the stack of programs in his hands, and Arthur couldn’t help the self-satisfied smirk that flashed across his face.   
  
They were swamped with visitors within a half hour, the Shakespeare festival opened to the entire community, and it being a Saturday. There were a few harried, bored faces in the crowd – people no doubt forced to be there by their teachers, or dragged there by a significant other or sibling – but for the most part everyone Arthur spoke to loved at least one or two of the Bard’s works, and Arthur couldn’t help the buoyant feeling in his chest, especially when he heard some of his own people, with their distinct accents, in the crowd.   
  
It was discomfiting though, the number of people who kept asking if they could take his picture, including a smug-looking Helen.   
  
Alfred came to find him during one of the lulls in the stream of visitors, bringing a warm pastry with him and two paper cups, one of cider, the other of grape juice. Arthur wondered about that, until he remembered that they were in a high school, and the school board couldn’t possibly serve mead or wine.   
  
“Enjoying yourself?” Alfred asked, breaking the pastry into pieces. Steam rose from the chunks of meat and gravy.   
  
“Immensely.” Arthur abandoned all pretense of formality, and used his hands the same way Alfred did. He licked some gravy from his fingers and smiled.   
  
Alfred looked like he wanted to kiss him, so Arthur ducked away, hissing “there are people here with cameras.”   
  
Alfred considered that for one moment, then pulled his watch from one pocket. Arthur had insisted he take it off, since digital watches did not go with period clothing. He stared at it, then snagged Arthur’s hand.   
  
“The performance is going to start soon, and I think we’re clear to take a break.” He dropped their paper plate and cups as they passed by a trash can, and the two of them ducked into the darkened fairy forest, with only the small lamp lights lighting the way.   
  
“Sure you didn’t pull me into the fairy’s forest so you can have your way with me?” Arthur said coyly, reaching up to brush his fingers lightly across Alfred’s cheek, and watched the blush spread across Alfred’s cheeks.   
  
“No! Heroes don’t take advantage of people like that.” He paused, then rubbed his head sheepishly. “Unless you want me to, that is.”   
  
Arthur laughed, and picked his way through the forest to a corner where they could see the stage, but was still shrouded from the audience by the backdrop and greenery. “So, I heard it was your idea to make this a  _Midsummer_  themed celebration.”   
  
“Yup.” Alfred was being all clingy now that they were somewhat safely hidden, slinging his hands around Arthur’s hips from behind and hugging close. “You know how sometime last decade, when I came to London and we watched  _Romeo and Juliet_  and you read out the lines for me during the lover’s scene?”   
  
“I—I can’t believe you remember that. You ended up sleeping through the rest of it.” Arthur ducked his head, and stared hard at his hands atop Alfred’s, willing his blush away.   
  
“Of course I remember.” Alfred’s voice went all low and warm. “It was sweet, Arthur.” And he gave Arthur a squeezing hug – Arthur felt like he was being squeezed a lot today. “But! That’s not how I want us to be!”   
  
“Eh?”   
  
“You know, with Romeo thinking Juliet died and killing himself, and Juliet waking up to find Romeo dead and, well, killing herself too. Any story that ends with the lovers dead is definitely  _not_  a proper love story.”   
  
“That’s because it’s a tragedy. And you were the one who picked it that time.”   
  
Alfred shrugged a little. “I was tired, and anything was okay if I was watching it with you, you know?”   
  
“And  _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ … what? Suits us better?” Arthur asked, a little bewildered. “I’m not sure that lovers whose feelings are so easily manipulated by some magical elixir serve as the best role models.”   
  
“Well, no. I mean—yeah, so Lysander and Demetrius are lame, fighting first for Hermia, then for Helena, but that’s not the point, I guess?”  
  
“You  _guess_?” Arthur glanced back at Alfred just so the other nation could see his less-than-convinced expression.   
  
“Not I guess, then,” Alfred pushed on. “The point is, the four of them were in this chaotic mess, right? And you have Titania who falls in love with an ass – literally – and that’s pretty messed up. But at the end of it all, they’re back with who they really belong with, at least for Lysander and Hermia. Uh.”   
  
“Go on,” Arthur said, amused, because it was endearing to see Alfred trying to make head and tails out of Shakespeare’s plays.   
  
Alfred slumped a little, his chin digging in slightly into Arthur’s shoulder. “Okay, so maybe the lovers aren’t the best analogy – you’re right, Demetrius had to be drugged, uh,  _elixired_  to love Helena, but it’s just... you know what Puck said?”   
  
He pulled away and swung Arthur around so they were standing face to face. “Puck went around fixing Lysander so he goes back to loving Hermia, and he says this, right? ‘Jack shall have Jill, nought shall go ill; the man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well.’”   
  
Alfred’s hands are wrapped gently around Arthur’s now, even though he’s speaking as though he’s tripping over his tongue to get the words out. “I just thought it’s kind of like us. How we went through all that stuff, with me leaving, and us fighting, and fighting until the War where  _everyone_  was fighting, and despite all of that and the economic crisis and natural disasters, well, we’re together now, and all  _is_  well.”   
  
Arthur didn’t know what to say. His cravat felt tight around his throat, and the silence was stretching out between them despite the muffled sounds from the audience and the teens setting up the stage. “So. Am I Jack, or am I Jill?”   
  
Alfred blinked, and Arthur moved closer, threading his fingers through Alfred’s and holding on tight. “’Jack shall have Jill, nought shall go ill,” he repeated, smiling. “So which am I?”   
  
Alfred’s eyes darkened. “You’re mine,” he simply said, and Arthur nodded, closing the space between them and hugging Alfred close, breathing in the scent that reminded him of sunshine and broad blue skies and was uniquely Alfred’s.   
  
“Sometimes, you surprise me,” he said, and his voice wasn’t raw, his throat was not tight and he was not crying. “Thank you, Alfred.”   
  
Alfred was nosing into his hair. “Am I awesome, or am I awesome?”   
  
Arthur groaned softly. “Neither.” Alfred opened his mouth to protest. “You’re brilliant,” Arthur said, and pulled Alfred down by his cravat for an opened-mouth kiss that was warm, a little rough, but just right.   
  
Behind them, Puck flitted onto the stage with his magical elixir to work his mischief. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Shakespeare Day. It doesn't exist yet. But the British Shakespeare Company is calling to make April 23, the day Shakespeare died National Shakespeare Day. The proposal has backing from several Cabinet ministers, and if all goes well, it’ll be official. When? I have no idea. But I imagine that Shakespeare being as popular as he is that the celebration will be picked up around the world. 
> 
> [2] _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ is a comedy featuring three interconnected plots: the bickering fairy king Oberon and queen Titania, the runaway (and chasing) lovers, and an acting troupe. Puck, on Oberon’s demands, goes off with a magical elixir that makes the victim fall in love with whoever they first see when they wake up. Puck accidentally charms Lysander, creating a whole series of messy conflicts between the lovers. The lines Alfred quote are the ones Puck says at the end of Act III, when he goes and decharms Lysander, restoring the lovers back to their proper relationships.


End file.
